(Adapted from Sonnet 116)
Let me not to these Sherlockians,
admit reluctance. Love is not love
Which pales when it debauchery finds,
Or muffles with the guise of morality.
For who trusted this temptress, this hellcat, this siren?
It was our great detective, ever resolute.
And when Winter’s cold winds blew vitriol through the garden
The only surprise was that it wasn’t her boot.